Through the gates of hell
by Sister-Puce
Summary: A chronicle of Walter's time as a patient in St.Claire's mental hospital. In the first chapter, Walter is admitted after being charged with insanity...and with a murder that he just may have committed. Appearances of Doctor Bruce Sumner and various OCs, as well. Many thanks to my past Beta and co-author, Uroboros75.


**Author's note**: This story was meant to chronicle Walter Bishop's life in Saint-Claire's, so it does have some minor disturbing content. It may, or may not be finished and was meant to be more than five, vignette-style chapters.

The main orderly would be played by Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje if he was in the show.

My original Beta was Uroboros75 and he helped co-author the second draft of it. I thank him for his support and inspiration. He and I have since gone separate ways (my fault, I believe) but I still love where this story was going so I have decided to take it up again and alter some. Much gratitude to my old friend.

**Disclaimer**: I do not claim to own any rights to _Fringe_ or any of the numerous brand names of consumer products mentioned. I do not intend any copyright infringement. I'm just a fan who writes fics.

**Rating**: T for disturbing scenes, depictions of nudity, tobacco, and mild profanity.

**Chapter characters**: Walter Bishop, Carla Warren, Doctor Bruce Sumner, and various OC's.

* * *

**μέσω των πυλών της κόλασης**

* * *

**W**hen Walter Bishop walked through the doors of Saint-Claire's in the fall of 1991, he bore the countenance of dignity and the demeanor that only a puissant man like himself could carry. His shoulders were held back, his eyes half-open and barely discernible, dauntless in the process of being delivered straight into Hell itself.

Carla Warren's dying face was eternally branded on his soul.

How could someone be so moronic as to spill potassium chlorate all over his trusted assistant and inadvertently drop his Garfield fruit rolls into the pool of liquid at her feet? The explosion had caught her dress and sent her up in flames in moments. At least, that was what he was going to tell the constabulary. It was just crazy enough that maybe they would believe it. But that was not to be the case.

He was convinced that there had never been more absurd a turn in the histories of all worlds. If only he would never have crossed the line, and absconded with his son that was not his son, he would never have lost all faith; he wouldn't have had to do what he thought was necessary to cover up what must not be discovered. His life was nothing but a cosmic joke.

_"If there is a god_," he thought, "_then this must the penalty that he is exacting upon me for_ _violating his fundamental decree_."

That's what he told the fire department when they arrived all too late, and again to the police officer when they had him in custody. "God is punishing me," he told them, despondent, "punishing me for stealing my own son from myself." But the burden of sin that he bore was not only for breaking the 8th commandment, but also for the 6th.

* * *

Walter could see a small cluster of orderlies at the end of the hall and winced when the guard dug his fingers into his forearm.

"Walter Bishop," the guard said to a Nigerian orderly wearing a white pair of scrubs while handing him Walter's suitcase.

"Follow me, mister Bishop," said the orderly, voice thick with accent. He took the suitcase before opening a gate and waited for the guard to walk Walter through. The orderly patted the guard on the back. "We'll take it from here, Tom."

They led Walter to a small, well-lit room with a table and cabinet. There was a box of latex gloves and a glass jar of swabs in the corner. Two men came in with the other orderly to assist him.

"Would you please remove your clothes, Mister Bishop?" the Nigerian orderly asked politely.

"What?" asked Walter, mildly offended. "I will do no such thing."

Yet he had read about this sort of thing once before, and dreaded what might be coming.

"If you refuse to cooperate, we will have to use force," the orderly said matter-of-factly. With a small, anxious nod, Walter began to remove his blazer. One of the other orderlies set his suitcase on the table with a loud thwack and popped the latches open. A folded piece of paper sat atop the contents inside, the words thereon the man read aloud:

1. One box of devil dogs.

2. Biscuit tin.

3. One bottle of Wella Balsam Shampoo.

4. One bar of Cusson's Imperial Leather Soap.

5. One tube of Crest Tartar Control toothpaste

6. One sealed toothbrush with built-in tongue cleaner.

7. Winter coat.

8. Trousers.

9. Dress shirt.

10. One pair of knee-high socks.

11. Two pairs of boxers.

12. Two pairs of briefs. I couldn't decide between briefs or boxers, so I brought pairs of both.

13. Hair brush.

14. Thirty-seven one-dollar bills. Thirty seven is a prime number, and an adequate amount.

15. Twenty tubes of lip balm.

16. Five composition books.

17. Tin of peppermints.

18. Box of Kleenex tissues.

19. A box of Wonka's Runts. The banana is my favourite, but grape is a close second.

20. Two sterilized, plastic tubes with plastic caps.

21. Shoebox full of Slimjims. Damn things are just so addictive.

22. Patent leather travel suitcase.

23. Pillow.

24. Blanket.

25. Four books.

"An inventory list," said the man after finishing. "How considerate of you to save us the trouble, mister Bishop."

After removing his shoes, Walter stood in nothing but his briefs and a wristwatch.

"Those will have to come off, too," said the main orderly.

Walter's meek face registered shock, but he nonetheless obeyed and stood as tall and proudly as he could manage despite the humiliation. The Nigerian orderly put on a pair of latex gloves and told Walter to lift his arms. He then instructed him to open his mouth, allowing him to check under his tongue and in his cheeks, before telling him to bend over the table.

"Why?" Walter asked in a higher tone than normal.

"I have to see if you're hiding anything in your rectum."

"NO!" Doctor Bishop adamantly snapped.

"It's institutional policy, Mister Bishop.," assured the orderly. Now, will you let me do my job so we can this over with?"

"Absolutely not!" replied Walter. "I refuse to let you invade my ass."

He may have been between a rock and a hard place, but Doctor Walter Bishop was not about to abandon what little dignity he had left. Yet no sooner did he cross his arms in defiance that the orderly clapped his hands, inciting his two aides to grab Walter and slam his face down on the table.

The Nigerian man shook his head. "Come on, fellas. No need to be so harsh." He received no apologies on their part.

"Unhand me at once!" Walter insisted, but all attempts at struggle were subverted when he felt two fingers plunge into his anus. His entire body tensed.

"What the… what's this?" The main orderly's interest was piqued as he felt something inorganic. Slowly, he pulled out a clear, tied-off balloon containing a couple of test tubes that housed colorless liquids. "Mind explaining this, Mister Bishop?"

"D-don't jostle them so! They're highly caustic," Walter warned them sheepishly as he lay on the table.

The main orderly held the tubes out for his aides with moderate disgust; after all, they had extracted far worse from the bodies of new patients. What they didn't know was that they were vials of sulfuric and hydrochloric acid.

"It must have been one hell of an uncomfortable ride getting here," noted the Nigerian man with some amusement.

"I don't recall having ever traveled a road with so many potholes," said Walter, still bent on the table. "It would have been worth it if it wasn't for you."

"Hey, man, them's the breaks. You packin' anything else in that fanny?"

"No," Walter admitted. He then wheezed with his eyes crossed and jumped, mortified, upon receiving a good-spirited smack on the bottom.

"Good. Would you stand up for me?"

The other men released him and he straightened up, flush and rubbing his eyes. The main orderly ignored his gasp when he inspected Walter's genitals to see if he had anything hidden in his urethra while one of the others casually removed his wristwatch. "Alright, we're done. Now, we'll have to draw some blood and collect a urine sample." Walter didn't verbally respond to the man other than with a rancorous squint. A hospital gown was thrust to his chest. "Put this on for now. Oh, and by the way, my name is Idongesit Omiata. You'll be seeing a lot of me."

"How fortunate" Walter frowned as Idongesit the orderly laughed in a way that could only be described as an earthy chuckle.

* * *

"So you're Doctor Walter Bishop, is that right? I've heard a lot about you," said Doctor Bruce Sumner as they stood in the hall outside of the inner ward.

"I'm sure you have," replied Walter.

Sumner nodded. "Are you aware that you have been committed to the Saint-Claire's Mental Hospital because you were judged mentally unstable to stand at a trial that found you guilty of second degree manslaughter?" He spoke with a legal document folded over in his hand, speaking as though this man of incredible intellect was incapable of comprehending rudimentary English.

"It was an accident," Walter explained. "I tried all I could to save her... CPR and several administrations of 700V electric shocks prior to the arrival of the fire fighters... But the damage was simply too extensive."

Sumner smirked and spoke to Idongesit. "This one used to work for the government." He turned his attention back to his new patient. "Isn't that right, Doctor Bishop?" Walter didn't answer. "Used to be quite resourceful. It seems that Saint-Claire's has exceeded its already exorbitant reputation."

"I find that to be a bit exaggeration," said Walter, "especially since this facility has an exorbitant mortality rate."

"Funny you should mention that," noted Sumner. "Room 120 was just vacated last night. The patient was suffering from an acute case of schizophrenia. Suffocated himself with his pillow. Maybe he knew you were coming."

Sumner exhaled cigar smoke at the scowling scientist's face as they stood in the strictly non-smoking sanatorium. Walter's nostrils flared as he quietly seethed while watching Sumner walk away. Idongesit tapped Walter's shoulder. "Come on. The showers are this way."

The shower area turned out to be a wide-open room with tile floors and multiple shower heads jutting from the walls. Omiata remained near the door, charged with supervising him. The soap they had given him smelled astringent. "You don't want to go crossing that man," said Omiata. "He's the devil of this here pit."

"He doesn't intimidate me," Walter said while rinsing off. Idongesit pulled a towel from the rack. "He will," warned the orderly. "You'll see."

* * *

All of the things that Bishop brought with him had been put in a locker for safe keeping. He was given a hideous purple jumpsuit to wear that was uncomfortably stiff, but he decided to simply wear his boxers and a T-shirt. When he was escorted through the third floor ward, very few patients wandered the halls. Only a couple acknowledged his presence, and then solely by staring. The stench was overwhelming, thick with decontaminants and bodily excretions of all sorts. They did let Walter keep his blanket and pillow, however, something for which he was grateful; he kept them close to his chest, Idongesit hovering close behind.

Room 120 loomed closer down the hall though a series of gates. Walter suddenly had the abhorrent realization that he would be locked up; he had understood the reality of what his fate would entail, but only now did it truly sink in, and each step brought greater dread than the last.

"Here we are," Idongesit announced as he slid a large, brass key into room 120's lock. He watched the expression of Walter's face as the door was opened; he had seen that look more times than he could count. Gently pushing him forward, Idongesit spoke in an assuring voice. "Get some sleep now, Doctor Bishop." He couldn't coddle this one anymore than he could the others; he had a job to do, and all patients had to learn the ins and outs at their own pace.

Walter flinched when he heard the door shut behind him, after which he looked around. A steel toilet in the corner; a small cabinet; a table with a stool bolted to the ground and a bed; it was a bare and bleak accommodation.

The bed sheets were dingy and wrinkled. Where had the schizophrenic man taken his life? Walter slowly waddled to the bed and pulled off the bedding to reveal a blue and white striped mattress with a small rip in the surface. On closer inspection, Walter spotted the corner of a piece of paper peeking out of the gash. He pinched it out, revealing a photograph of a smiling man with his arms about a petite Hispanic woman at a carnival, both seeming genuinely happy; the picture appeared as though it had been though the wash.

Walter placed it on the table, wondering if the man in the photograph was the schizophrenic man that had been the room's predecessor. He smoothed his own blanket over the mattress and lay wearily on top of it. Staring at the ceiling, he felt a constant presence, as though the man was watching; but of course, it was hogwash. Theoretically, a person's residual energy could linger in an area for some time after death, especially if they died in a particularly heightened state of fear, pain, or any other potent emotion. The area the death took place would be akin to a record, where the act of suicide would have been recorded into the spiral grooves of the record's vinyl face. The passage of time could play the recorded emotions, or the changes in atmosphere could trigger a sudden burst of this residual energy, but ghosts were never part of the equation.

Because ghosts weren't real...

…were they?

A knock emanated from the door.

"Checks," a voice called, and the tumblers turned. An orderly named Joseph White walked in and saw that Walter had sat up and was staring wildly at him. "Everything okay in here?"

"Why are you asking?"

"It's routine. We have to check on patients every hour. You okay?"

"No... I can't sleep," Walter answered softly, trying not to move the blanket for fear of touching the mattress. The orderly sounded irritated. "If you can't sleep, we're going to have to administer a sleeping aid."

"W-what would that be? Chloral hydrate?" The orderly did not grace him with an answer.

He watched the man turn and shut the door behind him. Walter tried the knob, but to no avail. Joseph returned shortly, where he abruptly told Walter to sit down. And after administering the hypnotic, the man left without another word, and Walter fell into a dreamless void.

"Time to get up, Doctor Bishop," said Idongesit, tapping Walter's side. "7:00 AM. You're going to become a morning person whether you like it or not."

The hall was now teaming with patients, all filed up in two, neat lines. They were shuffling along at an annoying pace toward a point in the hall where they turned about and went back down the length of the hall, repeating this process indefinitely. Idongesit waved him along. "Go on. Get your exercise."

"Exercise?" exclaimed Walter. "Running these people around like horses in a show ring is supposed to be advantageous to their health?"

"You are one of these people. So get your ass in line." Walter looked to Omiata, realizing that what the man said was true.

He was one of these people now.

* * *

"What on Earth is this?" asked Walter, staring at a serving vat of chopped hamburger and some green herb and onions.

The man with the hairnet glowered at him. "Salisbury steak," he answered.

"My ass!" Walter replied with a scoff.

The man spat. "If you don't want it, don't eat it."

"N-no. I'll take it." Walter said, defeated.

There wasn't much else to eat aside from mashed potatoes, fruit salad and meat surprise. The food service attendant plopped a blob of mashed potatoes with the meat and sent him down the line with a cup of milk.

Walter surveyed the cafeteria for a free table and saw one at the back of the room. To his dismay, right after he took a seat, a patient walked over to join him. The stranger silently sat down and placed his tray in front of him, slowly lifting the spoon of mashed potatoes and peas to his chapped lips. The sound made by his masticating jaws made Walter stew. The stranger scraped the spoon against his teeth, too, sending chills down Walter's spine.

The last straw came when the patient actually hocked up the contents to chew them once again in the same insufferable manner.

"WHY MUST YOU DO THAT?" Walter exploded "WHY?"

The stranger turned his head to face him and what Walter saw immediately silenced him. Pure, unbridled madness possessed the patient's eyes, a lunacy to rival even Manson's. The pale cornea wreathed a dark abyss that took the breath from Walter with fear; as fast as he could, he picked up his tray and distanced himself from the table.

"Whoa, what's the problem here?" an orderly said, holding his hand up as he obstructed Walter's path. Walter halted and spun around to see that the lunatic had simply resumed his chewing. "Oh, ah, n-nothing. There's no problem."

"Good." The orderly waited until Walter had found another seat before taking his eyes off him and resuming his surveillance of the cafeteria.

_My God_, Walter thought. _At this rate, I won't survive_.


End file.
